Things We Sometimes Miss
by DormantAllure
Summary: Happens between several scenes of "His Last Vow" and illustrates what sort of truce John, Mary and Sherlock might have to reach concerning their future together. Sickfic. Tentative JohnLock.
1. Not fearless at all

Chapter 1: Not fearless at all

Suddenly something has happened to me

As I was having my cup of tea

Suddenly I was feeling depressed

I was utterly and totally stressed

Do you know you made me cry

Do you know you made me die

And the thing that gets to me

Is you'll never really see

And the thing that freaks me out

Is I'll always be in doubt

It is a lovely thing that we have

- The Cranberries: "Animal Instinct"

Clare leaned on the depressingly grey basement wall, pushing a stray lock of sweaty hair back under her bonnet. She wondered if she dared to leave her Junior House Officer in charge of the bread-and-butter-appendicectomy they'd just put under. That would give her maybe forty minutes of potential sleep. Slumber. Coma. It was nearly midnight, and the hard mattress of the on-call room beckoned. The surgeons had just entered the theatre, meaning it would probably be a quiet moment for the anesthesia staff.

Her phone began to ring, cranking Clare's level of alertness several notches up. It could just be a difficult iv at the wards. Or Devendra from the theatre, wanting her opinion on some medication the House Officer was wondering whether to give or not. Or it could be a full-blown disaster requiring fast hands and a mind much sharper than the sleep-ridden, aching one Clare had to offer.

It was neither. Just a bored colleague from the neuro service. "Hey Lake." The warm male voice at the other end yawned. "Busy night?"

"Read all the papers twice. Now I'm sort of torn between Netflix and putting together the presentation I was supposed to give tomorrow. Can't seem to be able to sleep for some reason. You?"

"Appy. Overeager gastro registrar didn't want to wait overnight. Less hassle for the day shift that way or something. Devendra's on it, it's good to give her some space. She's assisted me with three of those already."

"Still, it'll be on you if she fucks up."

"No need to remind me. Burden of the consultant."

Silence. Smalltalk died down quickly when one was this tired.

Suddenly the comm system crackled to life. At night, it was rarely used outside of emergencies. "Rosemore-Harringdon to A&E." Oh right, she was still on the phone. They had probably tried to call her. "Gotta go," she told Lake, disconnected and began the short jog towards the Emergency department.

She was stopped by the A&E entrance by an orderly with her lap loaded full of blood bags. "Clare honey, could you get these, I have to run and prep the invasive rad suite."

Clare skidded to a halt and grabbed what she could carry. "What's going on?"

"This guy got shot in his right lung. Went asystolic during transport, 45 minutes of resus after which they called him. Then he just sort of, well, woke up."

Clare rubbed her temples. This was going to be a long night. Prepping the invasive radiology department likely meant a lengthy embolization procedure under GA. "What do you mean, woke up?"

"Well, he sort of wiggled his fingers and there it was, sinus on the screen"

Clare glanced at the blood bags. "These are all O neg. We don't have a blood type in the records?"

The orderly shrugged.

"It's AB positive," came a sudden, hasty reply from a few feet away, somewhere in the hallway. Clare turned.

"Oh my God, John Watson, is that you?"

The situation would not allow a catch-up with her old medical college comrade, so Clare had to contend herself with a sympathetic but confused nod to John Watson before hurrying to the resuscitation suite. For some reason, John followed her and lingered by the doorway. Clare figured he must've known the patient.

Clare turned her attention to the situation at hand. The patient was a youngish male, greyishly pale but the steady but frantic beep of the monitors meant that he wasn't a goner yet. A half-empty syringe of propofol meant they'd had to sedate him. No kidding then, about the waking up. Asystolic after a gunshot wound? How on earth had he manage to wake up after practically bleeding out?

The patient was slender, with sharp facial features and a mop of dark, curly hair. He looked familiar. Maybe she'd seen him in the papers for some reason. She didn't have much time to follow the news recently. A dark woolly coat lay on the floor, cut to pieces. The patient was mostly only wearing his suit pants, his white shirt hanging open and limp and his sides, drenched with blood. Someone was applying pressure onto the lower right thoracic quadrant.

Garvey, a fellow anesthesia consultant who was stationed at the patient's headside, gazed up and noticed her. "Glad they got hold of you. I have to get to the HDU, one of our coronary bypasses is circling the drain." Clare wasn't trained in cardiac procedures so couldn't have acted as a substitute.

"I'll take over. What do we have?"

"Male, 34, history of substance abuse but no permanent damage, it seems. No knowledge of recent use. No blood-borne infections."

Behind Clare, John Watson seemed to be clearing his throat but said nothing.

"No allergies, no medications. Shot at close range but not point blank with a handgun, x-ray indicates the bullet's only entered the muscle layers but has torn an intercostal artery. They want to embolize it and dig the bullet out thoracoscopically. ROSC after 45mins." Garvey shook his head in disbelief. "We'd just taken our gloves off, heading out—" Garvey mused. He was saying they'd already decided it was moot to continue resuscitation. Meaning the man on the gurney had been dead. "Spontaneous return to sinus rhytm. I mean, we hadn't even gotten hold of any RBC yet!"

Clare glanced at the patient. She'd have plenty of time to marvel at this potential medical miracle later. Now she had a job to do.

Garvey disappeared out of the door, and Clare took his place by the patient's head.

John stalked closer. A nurse noticed him. "Sir, you have to step back. Unless you're his family or spouse we can't allow-"

"I'll be his bloody whatever! I'm not leaving!"

He sounded desperate, haunted.

Squeezing the ambu bag at regular intervals, Clare wondered why Garvey hadn't hooked the patient up to a portable ventilator yet. After ensuring that the intubation tube was still in place, she turned to the nurse trying to manhandle John Watson out of the suite."It's alright, he's a colleague. Just let him be." The nurse gave them both a glare, and then returned to hosing down a tubing full of Ringer's lactate to hook up to the iv.

John stalked closer, and to Clare's surprise grabbed the patient's hand. "Sherlock." He said, and realization and recognition dawned in Clare's mind. Right, Hat-man and Robin. Bless her sleep-lacking brain to forget what she knew John Watson had been doing recently, according to the papers. "It's him?" she asked, taking a closed look at the patient. John nodded.

Clare knew Watson John well. They'd spent great many nightly hours together during medical school interships, late night cram sessions and shared the other hardships of studying for their craft. John had shared a flat with Clare's brother. Clare hadn't been surprised to learn John had headed to Afghanistan after a short stint as a GP. Fearless, he'd always been. Determined. Never nervous – or maybe sometimes, but it never showed.

This John, however, was very different from the John of Clare's many memories. Pale as a ghost – nearly as pale as the half-dead patient on the gurney – with sweaty palms John was wringing together. A look of frantic but silent desperation was evident in his expression. This was John Watson, devoid of all but the most elementary self-control. John Watson, in such a state as Clare had never witnessed him in.

Suddenly, there was a groan, and something tugging at the bag Clare was squeezing. She moved her gaze from John back to the patient – and was met with a pair of slightly panicked, not-entirely-aware eyes. Surprisingly enough, her patient wasn't fighting the intubation tube. "Sixty milligrams of ethomidate and one point five milligrams of alfentanil, please, and fast," Clare told a nurse standing nearby. If he wasn't fighting the tube now, he would be soon.

John nearly leapt to Clare's side, trying to meet the patient' gaze. "Sherlock, it's allright, it's just, don't worry-"

John Watson not knowing what to say. That was a another new one for Clare. After an agonizing minute of shared stares between a doctor and her confused, lethargic patient – Clare mainly wondering how on Earth he was able to stay so still – the drugs kicked in. Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, as though accustomed to the sinking feeling caused by a dose of such medications taking effect.

John let out a breath he probably hadn't been even been aware of holding. He grabbed the patient's hand, holding it between his palms.

Clare wondered what she herself would feel, what she would try, what she would want, if it was someone important to her on the table. She would have a very hard time being sidelined like John inevitably in this situation was. It was disconcerting to see someone she'd leaned on so many times come this unhinged.

After adjusting the ventilator, Clare turned to John. "Could you give me a hand, John?"

John looked up at her, and Clare thought that there was a sudden flash of gratitude in his expression. Along with expectation. He let go of the patient's hand. "Anything."

Clare smiled. Something told her he'd really meant what he had said. "An arterial line, if you please, Dr Watson."

After a split second of hesitation, routine kicked in, John grabbed a set of gloves and together they set to work. Clare breathed a sigh of relief that her distraction had worked. To be honest, it was creeping her out seeing John like this.

Roughly forty minutes later things had calmed down considerably. Patient Holmes was under a carefully titrated infusion of anesthetics, looking rather peaceful lying on the operating table at the invasive radiology suite. Monitors indicated only a slightly elevated heart rate. Clare had placed a central venous catheter into his left internal jugular to allow large amounts of blood products to be infused quickly, restoring hematocrit and hemoglobin levels as well as the amount of circulating coagulation factors. Sherlock Holmes had, indeed, arrived at the trauma centre in the nick of time. Or maybe even a bit after. Luckily his implied narcotics history had obviously not affected his heart – only a healthy one could have made such a miraculous recovery from flatline.

John's fidgeting had subsided to a level which in Clare's judgement allowed for a cup of coffee, especially considering the late hour. They had both snuck in their caffeine doses into the observation area of the radiology suite. The taste was depressing, it had probably been left in the pan by the evening shift.

John sipped his foul beverage. "What do you think the chances are they'll have to go in for a thoracotomy?"

Clare shifted in her chair. Her running shoes had begun to chafe. Her legs were getting swollen after being on her feet for nearly twenty-four hours. "Intercostals are not too difficult to navigate and Langly's very good." She gave a nod to the radiologist, who was wrapping herself into a sterile gown. The bullet had penetrated deep enough to puncture the pleura but had not advanced to lung tissue. It had hit a rib on the way in, splitting into two fragments, one of which was the culprit behind the torn artery. There was a small hemopneumothorax which had been drained with a pleural drain.

John's shoulders slumped. He'd been standing by the doorway and Clare thought he saw a momentary sway, just a small one. She hoped she wouldn't end up with two patients instead of just one. He had to get John's mind off the medical facts, since those were seemingly disturbing him at the moment.

"Any next of kin?"

"Parents are in the US. He's got a brother, who probably already knows. Bloody CCTV, he's probably patched into these internal ones as well." John shot an indignant glance at a security monitor.

Deciding to ignore her old friend's strange new paranoid tendencies, Clare decided to be curious. "So, the two of you, crime fighters, eh?"

John smiled for the first time since Clare had run into him that evening. "Sort of. He solves them, I blog."

"I remember reading he's sort of brilliant, isn't he?"

John seemed to be lost in thought for a minute. "Well, yeah. Never a dull moment. Mind you, when he gets bored it's better to get out of the way. He's probably three times smarter than both of us put together. But he's also bratty, obnoxius, narcissistic, completely oblivious to anyone's feelings and cruel, beyond anything you could ever imagine."

"So your friendly neighbourhood psychopath then. At least that's what they say in the papers."

"Sociopath."

"What?" Clare dunked her empty disposable mug into the bin.

"High-functioning sociopath, he likes to tell that to people. He just doesn't get the rest of us", John mused.

"Nice sort of company you keep, Watson." Clare smiled, slightly annoyed that the suite hadn't been updated yet and she didn't have a remote monitor to follow the procedure.

John didn't reply. He seemed to be lost in thought.

"So, are you two then…?"

This shook John out of his reverie. He looked resolute. "No, I mean, I've got a wife-" A fervent denial which, to Clare, somehow sounded a bit rehearsed.

"I had no idea you got hitched. New thing? Congratulations!"

John seemed a bit absent again. "Two months," he replied, eyes locked towards the operating room again.

There wasn't much more for Clare to do apart from waiting, so she allowed herself to wonder a bit more about John. Did she look at his wife the way he had looked at a nearly dead Sherlock Holmes in A&E, with the sort of all-encompassing absolution that if Mr Holmes disappeared before their very eyes, John Watson would follow?


	2. A favor

Chapter 2: A favor

John and Clare stood and waited, an awkward silence lingering in the radiology suite. It would be awhile yet before the radiologist would be able to advance with the procedure.

After going through her patient's vitals on the monitor – still steady - Clare stole a glance at John. He looked older than when they'd last met but not old in a stagnant, sluggish sense. Older in a wiser, worldlier way. Could they be friends again, like they had once been? Or had too much happened to him since they had finished their medical training? Clare had contended with the small victories of her nondescript career while John seemed to have floated towards danger and mayhem. During their training, while Clare had endlessly fretted over on-call shifts in the ER, worried what emergencies she might encounter and whether she would be able to address them properly John had thrived in the high-strung atmosphere of acute care. There was much she wanted to ask about what had been going on in his life, but this didn't seem to be right moment.

Garvey appeared at the doorway. "I checked on Devendra for you. Appy's in recovery, awake. Don't think you'll be needed there anymore."

Clare nodded. "Thanks."

"How's the gunshot wound guy doing?"

Clare wondered if John minded his friend being described like that. He didn't seem to be listening. "Stable for the moment. 8 units crossmatch, sixteen donors worth of platelets, 4 units FFP. Actually, could you cover for me here for a moment?"

Garvey nodded and yawned. "Whatever."

Clare stood up and grabbed John's arm. "Let's go."

He stood up, reluctantly. "Can't I stay?"

"You can, but I think we both need some fresh air." She smiled at him. "Come on. He's not going anywhere for a moment. Garvey here will keep an eye on him."

Soon they stood outside by the hospital loading bays. It was chilly enough to hope for a coat but not cold enough to shiver. Sounds of cars echoed in the concrete walls. Clare leaned onto a trolley, thanking the stars that her phone hadn't rang for awhile. "You two are really good friends then." More of a remark than a question.

John nodded. "He doesn't have friends. There's just the landlady and me. And I've nothing to give to him," John blurted out, sounding frustrated.

Clare couldn't quite follow.

"He doesn't think he's got any bloody friends, but still he jumped off a fucking building for those non-existant ones. For me. And I just don't get it. For a guy who hates feelings in general and claims he doesn't even have them-I just don't get why he pulls these sacrificial stunts. Now he gets himself killed again. And for some bloody rubbish puzzle-solving, deduction bullshit reason."

"Maybe he just doesn't want to admit he cares more than he lets on?"

Clare suggested. John thought about the suggestion for a moment. "That would be it for any Joe Cheese, but with Sherlock you just never know. He reads people perfectly, you know. All the small stuff that nobody notices. But noone can read him, not what he's feeling."

It was none of Clare's business, but at the moment John didn't seem to have much in terms of choice concerning who to share his grief with. "What did you mean, you've nothing to give? You're a good friend, John, never doubt that. What more could he want?"

John spread him arms, confused. "I don't know. I don't know what I want, either. You can't really describe him in the usual way like if he's lonely, or sad, or whatever. All I know is that I got engaged, he got a bit weird, I got married, he got high, and now he's got a bullet stuck to his chest and somehow I thinkit's somehow my fault. And I can never repay him for what he's been, what he's done, after Afghanistan. I could never make his life as amazing as he's made mine."

Clare simply nodded.

"He's insufferable, he's a total dickhead but you can't walk away, just can't, even after he wrecks your life. And then he returns like it's a fucking joke, "hello John, how've you been?".

"There must be some reason why he'd want you around, though. And why he'd jump off a building."

"Sure as hell can't be for some high idea of moral or duty. He doesn't understand either."

"Maybe it isn't just for convenience either. He's got you listed as his emergency contant."

"Me and his brother Mycroft, yes."

"No. Just you."

John did not reply.

"Mary." Clare was startled by a raspy voice from the bed. She'd been adjusting an infusor pump by the bedside at the HDU, lost in thought. She had been certain her patient would most likely remain knocked out for some time yet, allowing time for his treatment plan for the next day to be finalized.

Clare put the infusor on standby. Morphin. John had managed to talk her out of a PCA solution even with lock settings – "not a good idea for him to be able to push the buttons himself, he won't even bat an eyelid before figuring out the passcodes to the machine". A regular iv then, with Clare relying on the courtesy of her new patient not to start adjusting the dose himself. Surely he wouldn't dare to touch the infusor? Maybe John could keep an eye on him, since he practically had moved in to the hospital to be at his friend's side.

Clare turned to face the man lying on the bed. His eyes were closed, but Clare could see movement under the delicate, thin eyelids. Clare was certain he was still awake. "What about Mary?"

Brown eyes flew open. "Where is she?" Sherlock Holmes asked, with a more demanding tone that Clare had been expecting from someone recently risen from the dead.

"She was here earlier, said she needed to get some things from home. How are you feeling, Mr Holmes?" Clare touched the back of her hand to his forehead. No fever. Which meant no infection. Yet.

He didn't reply at first, instead fiddled with the nasal oxygen cannula, seemingly annoyed by the sizable collection of wires and infusion tubes restricting his movement. Movement, which seemed to be starting to cause him some discomfort. "Hurts," he remarked.

"Well, you did take a bullet in the chest, Detective."

He grimaced and coughed. "Nag, nag. You sound like John."

"Funny, since people at Uni usually said it was the other way round. Would you like to see him?"

Sherlock looked as though he'd realized he was forgetting something important. He tried to sit up, but paused halfway, breathing heavily and droplets of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"Mr Holmes, take it easy." Clare gently pushed his reluctant and hasty patient back onto his back. "John'll be back in a minute."

"Need. To. Discuss-" he spat from behind gritted teeth.

"No." Clare upped the morphine and a thin veil of fog seemed to descent on the pair of brown eyes looking at her indignantly from the bed. "You're barely out of danger so no acrobatics. It'll take time for the air to empty from your pleura ad the cracked rib along with the crushed muscles will be nasty for a while. The more you'll take it easy, the quicker it'll heal."

He didn't reply. Probably didn't like to be scolded like this, by a doctor. John had informed her of Mr Holmes' not-so-high opinions of medical professionals. 'Such boring drones, digging into people's orifices for a living. Plus they have to talk to all sorts of people, all day, every day. Nightmare. Enough to make anyone lose their marbles.'

She caught him eyeing the morphine drip. "Don't even think about it." The only reply she got was a quiet snore a moment later. Maybe he did listen to doctors sometimes.

Clare snuck out of the door and ran into John in the hallway, carrying two cups of coffee, the other which he passed unceremoniously to Clare. One of their old uni morning routines. "Is he…?" he inquired a bit anxiously.

Clare smiled. "He's sleeping, but yes, he did manage a few words before I had to up the morphine."

John took a moment, closed his eyes and Clare wondered what he was thinking. Considering his reaction to the situation the night before, anything he might say would probably sound a bit trite or trivial. "Maybe I shouldn't go in just yet, then." He sounded calmer, more relaxed than he'd been during this whole ordeal.

John's phone rang. "He's pulled through!" he exclaimed, the person at the other end obviously aware of what had transpired. He covered the phone with his hand and turned to Claire. "It's Mary, she's on her way up."

Third text message. And it wasn't even noon. Three times Clare had had to abandon her duties at the operating theatre to return to the HDU. Mr Holmes did not seem to fathom that she might have more pressing duties than to be at his beck and call. When John was around things were a bit more quiet, but when Sherlock had somehow gotten hold of her personal mobile number she had had to recruit John for a disciplinary campaign. The occasional message did pop up every now and then, still, at varying intervals. As per John's instructions she always replied, since not doing so would have resulted in a flood of follow-up messages. At least according to John, who seemed to have quite a bit of experience in the matter. Mr Holmes had been doing well for several days, no signs of infection and the pneumothorax had drained fast.

'Assistance required urgently. John refuses to adjust iv. SH'

'Call a nurse. CR-H'

'Already did. Told me off. SH'

'Adjust iv to what end? CR-H'

'Adjust it so it isn't attached to me. SH'

Clare was just about to call the ward when another text message appeared.

'So sry. Shl stole my phone again. Do carry on with actual important doctor work. JW'

Clare laughed and began typing a reply.

' No prob. Although I'm not actually in charge of him anymore. The HDU has its own doctors. C'

'He told me that if you were study partners with me you have to be at least as skilled as I am, which would suffice at a pinch. Doesn't seem to like the HDU doctors. JW'

Clare smiled. Judging by what John had told her about Mr Holmes, she probably had reason to feel a bit honored by Mr Holmes' assesment.

Clare received a call an HDU nurse a few hours later. "It's him again. Wants a word," remarked the exasperated-sounding orderly at the other end of the line.

"What now?" Clare was slightly annoyed. John had gone to fetch some things from work, Mary – who had been a quite a regular visitor herself – had gone home for the afternoon, meaning that the patient had more time in his hands to bug whoever would listen.

"Wouldn't say. Refuses to tell anybody else."

"I'll be a minute."

She made sure the regional anesthetic she had just administered was beginning to kick in and headed upstairs.

"Well then, Mr Holmes. This better be urgent, since I had to leave my patient in the OR again."

Sherlock Holmes looked at her. Really looked. He'd been fine with a considerably lower dose of pain medication during the last few days so appeared less confused. Clare had begun to understand some of what John had hyped about considering Mr Holmes' mental aquity. He had driven a couple of nurses to tears with his cold, calculating deductions of the state of their love lives after they'd refused to obey his various wishes. He'd been suprisingly courteous with Clare, however, making her slightly suspicious. "Anyone dying?" he inquired, expression deadpan.

"Not at the moment, no."

"Hm."

"So?"

Clare was getting impatient. Mr Holmes crossed his arms, careful not to exert pressure on his thoracoscopy wounds. "I require a favor."

Not 'I need a favor' or 'please', simply a statement of requirement. "Depends." Clare thought he looked a bit worried. Distracted.

"I need to get out of here. And I need your help to do so."

"No. Absolutely out of the question." Clare prepared for a lenghty

lecture. John had told her Sherlock hated them so now she was willing to give it her best shot. "Need I remind you, Mr Holmes, that you were brought in a mere four days ago practically lifeless, with a punctured pleural sack and internal bleeding and if you discharge yourself you risk-"

He raised his hand to interrupt. "Dr Rosemore-Harringdon. I know exactly what I will be risking if I leave. Recurrent bleeding, fainting due to anemia, exacerbation of the pneumothorax. However, if I do not leave, I risk far more."

"And what would that be?" Clare crossed her arms.

"John Watson."

After all the interactions between her patient and her friend she'd witnessed the past few days, this admission did not surprise her a bit. Clearly there was this… thing of some sorts going on between John and this strange man. Something that might defy ordinary descriptions of words like "friend". The shared looks, the inside jokes, the slight touches when the thought noone was looking. And it all looked so natural, so effortless. As though the two men shared a universe no other could enter.

"I am not asking you to discharge me. I am quite familiar with hospital policy, the judicial background of discharge orders and the usual time periods for which thoracic gunshot wound patients are typically hospitalized."

He'd been borrowing John's laptop again to do his online research, Clare realized. Even though John had sworn not to give it to him. 'It'll only make it worse when he finds things he can't go see and experiment with immediately. Plus he's always beating my game scores,' John had complained.

"I am merely asking your advice as a physician on the safest methods of disentangling myself from this mess." He wiggled his right index finger, attatched to which was a pulse oxymeter. "You have two options. Either I do this myself to the best of my abilities or you simply accept it as fact that I will be going, whether you discharge me or not, and be a nice doctor by making my exit as safe as possible."

John was right. Both his argumentative tone and his well-justified point made it moot to try and argue, no matter what the subject. Clare still wasn't sold, though. She took a seat in a chair next to the bed.

Sherlock had obviously noticed her suspicious expression. In a minute, she was offered a phone with the line open. "If you refuse to take it from me that it is imperative that I leave, talk to Molly," Sherlock said, pointing at the phone.

This was getting weirder. "Molly Hooper?

Our pathologist?"

"Quite right."

Clare sighed, and pushed his hand, still holding the phone, back down onto the bed. Sherlock pressed the disconnect button.

Molly Hooper was a nononsense kind of girl. She had no idea what a pathologist might have to do with the reason for her patient's urgency to leave the hospital but if Molly thought it important enough to risk his health and well-being, then maybe Clare didn't have all the facts. "Let's say I believe you. That it's a matter of life and death-"

"And marriage," Sherlock added.

Clare decided to ignore that. "-That you walk out that door, there's one condition."

Sherlock looked at her inquisitively. "Yes?"

"No morphine."

Now he looked annoyed.

"I promised John I'd help in weaning you out after all this. If you take a hike prematurely, you definitely won't be trailing behind an iv full of morphine with my name on the tag."

He sighed. "Very well. I shall make do without, then."

"It'll hurt."

"Unquestionably. What else can I expect or should avoid?"

"No running. Heavy breathing would probably make the pneumothorax worse. It isn't gone yet, you know, even though we pulled the drain tube out yesterday."

"Bleeding?"

"Not likely. But if you strain yourself and the broken rib dislodges, there might be another bleeder in there. In that case the pain will get worse fast, and you'll start to feel faint, cold, sweaty and tachycardic. I assume you know what that means."

"Tachycardic? Medical slang for an elevated heart rate exceeding a hundred beats per minute in adult humans."

Showoff. "In that case, call a bloody ambulance. We need to get you back here as soon as possible. Maybe do another embolization, maybe even surgery."

Sherlock began stripping himself of the electrocardiogram leads. Clare helped him out of the blood pressure cuff. Then he began tugging on the central line. Clare gently pushed his hand away. "Stop. Let me. That thing's no joke. First of all, I'll need a pair of sterile gloves to avoid passing bacteria straight into your central circulation. Plus we need to lower the top half of the bed before I pull out the cannule. Can you figure out why?" Clare couldn't resist testing Mr Holmes' infamous knowledge base.

"Risk of venous air embolism if the ambient air pressure exceeds that of the punctured vein?" He wasn't really asking whether it was so, it was more of a statement.

Clare nodded. "Private detective, eh?"

"Consulting detective."


	3. Relapse and recovery

Chapter 3: Relapse and recovery

And I remember all the things we once shared

Watching T.V. movies on the living room armchair.

They say it will work out fine

Was it all a waste of time?

- The Cranberries: "No Need To Argue"

Ten hours later

Clare's phone came to life again, its generic beeping firing up the usual fight-or-flight reaction. The sound was permanently etched to her memory, a trigger of simultanous anxiety and excitement.

Clare answered. Another night, another curt request for assistance from the A&E department. She hurried her steps to a jog.

Back at A&E, the action seemed to be centered in the resus suite as usually was the case when the presence of an anesthesiologist was deemed a necessity.

Clare grabbed a pair of gloves from a wall container and entered the suite. Her first glance took in the patient – a tallish fellow, face mostly covered by an oxygen mask. Clare's second look took in the vitals from a nearby monitor. Heart rate: skyrocketing. Oxygen saturation: mid-eighties, not bad for an emergency case but definitely not normal. Blood pressure: acceptable.

Clare stepped closer and the A&E nurses gave her a bit of space. "What have we got?"

"Recently discharged patient with an embolized intercostal bleed following a gunshot wound to the-"

Clare shook her head, unable to keep herself from feeling slightly amused. This was a horse-sized told-you-so. "No need to go on, he's one of mine."

A shaky hand shot up from somewhere on the gurney, fumbling with the oxygen mask. Sherlock Holmes pulled the mask partly of his face, gazing up at Clare. "Oh, you again," he hissed and it was difficult to ascertain whether his tone was disappointed, mildly positive or neutral.

"Mr Holmes. I see you decided to return. How are you feeling?"

"You're the doctor. Deduce." A bit of coughing, wheezing and slight tinge of blue on the lips. He winced as Clare grabbed his arm and gave the iv line the ambulance personnel had opened a larger-bore companion. He allowed the elastic bands to tighten the oxygen mask onto his face again.

"Pneumothorax probably worse. I can see it hurts like hell, considering your heart rate. Probably recurrent bleed, judging by your blood pressure and clammy hand."

Again the mask came off. "You did tell me what to look out for."

Now it was Clare's turn to replace the mask. "Keep that on. I would have preferred if you had come in a little earlier, though. A little bit before shock would be starting to raise its ugly head."

"Shit," Sherlock let out as a wave of nausea coupled with intense pain on his side hit full force.

"Milligram of alfentanil, please." Clare looked up from taping the iv in place, trying to find someone to direct her orders to. By the side of the monitor stood two young-looking white coats. Students, interns, whatever.

"You two there. Come closer. Anybody got a stethoscope?" The students looked at one another shyly and the female one dug one out from her pockets. "Good. Now listen to his lungs and tell me what you hear. Where's the A&E House officer?"

An orderly passed her a syringe. "He's gone to get the portable ultrasound for the radiologist."

"Good." Clare moved her attention to the students again. The male one was now fumbling with the patient's shirt and accidentally applied a bit of pressure on the right side of his chest. An assault of curses from under the mask was rendered unintelligible for the hiss of the oxygen flow. The mask came off again. "Medical students?" asked a raspy voice.

Clare nodded.

"Make them leave."

Lips turning blue again and still he's arguing. How on Earth could John live with this guy? "Now Mr Holmes, they're here to learn and I'm here to teach them."

"My mistake. I thought you were supposed to help me."

"I can do both. And succeed even better if you focus on breathing and not on second-guessing me. Your stats are dropping everytime you pull that thing off."

Sherlock let the mask fall back onto its place. At least the students were now finished with their exam.

"Breath sounds of the right diminished. Left side normal."

Clare nodded. "Get me a portable chest film and check the hemoglobin levels. Order Four units of RBCs and if hemoglobin's below eighty order four more coupled with four of plasma and 8 donors worth of platelets."

Again, the mask came off despite her warnings. Clare prepared to admonish her patient a bit more harshly now. But before the got around to yelling at Sherlock Holmes, he opened his mouth. "John?"

he wheezed in a worried tone.

Clare paused. Now that was a reasonable question. The type that any normal patient would ask instead of playing guessing games with doctors. "He's right outside. Would you like us to fetch him?"

Her patient looked exhausted. And even more out of breath that before. "No need. Would just. Worry too much. Not dying." He kept silent after that, letting Clare and her team do their jobs without distraction. After awhile the A&E doctor on call entered with a radiologist. A chest film and a cursory ultrasound of the abdomen were performed.

Clare sighed when she was told the results. "Call the cardiothoracic fellow on call." She tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Sorry, mate. Don't think we can spare you from surgery this time. I hope you got whatever you wanted to fix done during your AWOL because for the next few days you are not going anywhere."

Sherlock closed his eyes on the gurney, looking resigned.

Quietly, Clare set to work preparing for surgery. Her first step would definitely be getting in an epidural catheter to control the considerable pain after open chest surgery. The morphine drip had been a less-than-stellar idea to such a patient to whom figuring out how to work the infusor pump controls had not poised much of a challenge.

After surgery, the next few days were a blur to both the patient and his constant companion. John practically lived in the hospital. Mary Watson came and went, a fleeting ghost who seemed not to be able to decide how long to stay for or what to say. John, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly how to handle Sherlock Holmes, in sickness and in health. It took all the effort he had to cushion the interactions of the hospital staff and his prickly friend. John was also the only one to see through the incessant complaining, the demands and the drama. One night he had found Sherlock in what seemed like a rather depressed state. Annoyed, bored, borderline manic in excitement – these were familiar. Quiet defeat was a new thing. "Baker street," he'd whined, his usually eloquent delivery lacking. If getting bored at home was testing, John could guess that being stuck in the hospital must have required all of Sherlock's effort and energy to stay sane. Discharge was still a long way away, and Sherlock still didn't have enough strenght to even manage basic things like taking a shower on his own yet. Everything was still slow and difficult.

Dr Rosemore-Harringdon had seen Sherlock through surgery and the HDU period but after he was deemed fit enough to return to a regular bed ward, others took over. The hospital stay was an excellent opportunity to address some other issues with Sherlock's health besides his acute injury. He had a mild iron-deficiency anemia due to what could only be described as malnutrition. Oh, the lectures and the many annoyed comebacks that eventually degenerated into 'piss off, John' when Sherlock was too exhausted to argue. During one of those John managed to bother him long enough to coax out a promise to eat more.

At times, Mary Watson sat down next to John in the cafeteria or the hallway and tried talking to John in hushed tones, lapsing into silence when someone else so much as passed them. John usually turned away, answering only in syllables and focusing all his attention on Sherlock.

Mycroft Holmes, another fleeting figure, also came and went. He offered his condolences and often attempted feeble displays of empathy, which were then effectively nullified by Sherlock throwing things at him.

Sherlock had made John promise not to reveal to his planned discharge date to Mycroft. At first John had wondered why. The answer came to him on the day in question.

He had never before realized how many stairs 221b Baker street had. And how a lift would have sometimes come in handy. Like when they finally had filled all the paperwork, got a cab home and entered the foyer. Sherlock said nothing, just paused before the long flight of steps to their apartment. He did not even look at John.

At first confused by Sherlock's hesitation, and then rather apologetic for not realizing sooner what was going on, John hurried to Sherlock's aid and carried some of his weight as he slowly and painstakingly made his way up the their apartment. He had to stop every three steps to take a breather, still wary of drawing in a deep, proper breath as it made his cracked ribs hurt. There would certainly not be any running after London's criminal elements for a while.

John's jaw dropped by what he heard muttered at the upstairs landing. It had been a quiet thank-you of some sorts. Usually Sherlock was louder and more articulate. John realized he was embarrassed. Embarrassed by needing help, embarrassed by someone seeing him like this. No wonder he would so adamantly refuse Mycroft access to the scene.

John's chair was still in place. John fingered the worn upholstery absent-mindedly. Sherlock took a careful seat on the sofa – a far cry from the acrobatic furniture stunts he usually pulled, especially when sulking or bored. John resisted the urge to enquire after his well-being.

"Are you going to remain married, then?" Sherlock suddenly inquired, his tone rather business-like.

"I don't have an answer."

"She has her merits, you know. Never dull, I'd say. And quite clever."

Sherlock smiled slightly.

"You only like her because she's dangerous and she doesn't slap you or tell you to piss off like most women."

"I find your observations lacking, as usual. Quite many women have actually taken to me. For some reason they seem to be under the impression that I flirt."

John let out a hollow laugh. "When you are nice to people just to manipulate them, some of them can mistake it for you being, well, nice to them."

"Women defy logic." Sherlock sounded distracted.

"Couldn't agree more. Tea?"

"Mm-hmm." Sherlock leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

John entered the kitchen, opening cupboards and trying to figure out where Mrs Hudson had cleared away the cups. "Anyway, why do you ask?"

"About Mary? I would like an estimate of the time resources you are willing to allocate to our cases from now on."

"I haven't thought that far ahead. Look, Sherlock, it's all a bit of a mess right now-"

"Still? I would have thought even average minds would require no more than a week to make relationship decisions."

"Your life must be nice since you'll never have such decisions to make." John tried to keep spite out of his voice but everything about Mary was coming to the surface again and even though it was silly to lash out at Sherlock John sometimes couldn't help it – he'd been there, in the middle of the maelstrom, dishing out sour truths about John's presumed penchant for psychopaths. Sociopaths. Whatever.

"It is not entirely of my own accord that I find myself lacking these kinds of dilemmas." Sherlock's tone was difficult to interpret and he was obviously choosing his words carefully. He obviously tried to sound neutral, but there was a tint of hurt in it as far as John could tell. "Now that you have found yourself something of a female version of myself I have been wondering to what extent domestic life can now satisfy your needs and whether my companionship will be required at all."

John turned, beaker in hand. "First of all, Mary is not a girl version of you. Not by a long shot. What you're actually saying or trying to ask is whether I want to spend time with you now that I've got myself married."

Sherlock did not reply. Which was a rarity. Like John had told Irene Adler, Sherlock always responded to everything.

"I've loved my life since I met you. Granted it's been hell sometimes, but still. Mary doesn't take that away. Yes, I want to be here, I really do."

"I do recognize your need for a marital relationship. I regret to be unable to provide you with certain aspects of companionship and accept that you might need Mary for that."

John definitely did not want to delve deeped into that. Sherlock Holmes apologizing for not having lady parts? For giving him permission to be married? "What about you? What do you want? What is it you actually get from all this, what we do? And don't say housekeeping. You could pay someone to keep this place in order."

"They would mess with my system." Sherlock sounded somewhat evasive.

"You don't have a system. Apart from the sock index, your system is to drop stuff where you stand whenever you get a new idead in that head of yours which is like every 2,4 seconds." John sighed. This wasn't really about sock indexes. This was about Sherlock having some sort of feelings, which John knew he hated. His previous comment had actually sounded like John was all he needed, and that he regretted not having the same significance in John's life. Maybe John couldn't give him all that he wanted either.

John had slowly come to the realization that no matter the direction his relationship with Mary took, he could not stay out of Baker street. This is where a new man had been born out of the pile of war rubble he had been buried under. The man he'd been long before Mary, before any woman. He did want domestic bliss, he wanted kids and Sunday roasts and puppies playing on the lawn and pyjama-clad nights in front of the telly.

But he also wanted Sherlock.

Did Sherlock want more? Did he not deserve someone who coud give him everything in one package? Someone able to appeal to him both intellectually and in other ways as well, not just a best friend? John fought the urge to enquire about Sherlock's preferences once more, but knew he would most likely be stonewalled like before. He remembered the nickname Moriarty had given Sherlock, wondering whether there was a hint of truth behind it. Can of worms, John, don't go there.

As much as Sherlock tried to hide beneath a cruel, analytical façade, it was obvious these nasty feelings he claimed to hate did make the occasional appearance. John realized that Mary had recently been more apt at reading Sherlock than John himself had been. He'd missed all the hints hindsight was now giving him. The jealousy? The loneliness? Sherlock had been such an arse when he came back, ruining John's proposal, making jokes while John shook with rage, shock, relief, fear, hope and everything that had nearly driven him over the edge during the two years Sherlock had been absent. Now, after all this time, John understood that it had not been Sherlock's intention to be cruel or uncaring when he revealed his return to John. He had simply been confused, out of his comfort zone and perhaps a bit frightened about the outcome of his return after so much time.

John fought the urge to give his friend a hug. He would have never thought a day would come that he would find Sherlock Holmes a bit adorable in his complete cluelessness about some things.


	4. Undefinable

Chapter 4: Undefinable

You were a kindness when I was a stranger

But I wouldn't ask for what I didn't need

Everything's weird and we're always in danger

Why would you shatter somebody like me

- The National: "You Were A Kindness"

Silently, Sherlock Holmes knelt down and reached out a finger to touch the tiny human creature, the bare foot of it fumbling outside the carrier. He could faintly make out a mild, pleasant smell of talcum powder, or warmth and cleanliness and skin and sun.

A baby. A little bit of John. A little bit of Mary. And a little bit of something – something of its own, more than the sum of its parts and more than a fusion of its origins. Eyes devoid of memory but full of emotion, eyes he couldn't read, as though they existed in a whole other universe, like a blank slate yet anything but empty.

He hated people. But this was not people. This was a person before it got angry, bitter, stupid and got stuck in its monotonous habits. This could be anyone, anything, and noone had yet deprived it of its innocence. Him? Her? Sherlock couldn't remember. This was was probably impolite? Babies all looked so… neutral. Noone had yet told this baby what was expected of it. Almost enviable.

This was what John's life would be now. Babies, Mary, home, work. A somewhat incompatible equation with danger and crime-solving. And Sherlock.

John had popped into the store to fetch some teabags. It was the first time they had brought the baby to Baker street. Sherlock had excused himself from visiting them at the hospital, 'not his place, really', despite John's protests. John and Mary had realized Sherlock probably did not feel like entering one after his own very recent stay. This was also the first time he'd seen Mary after the airport. Been a bit busy with Moriarty – or lack thereof. He had appeared on national television and then disappeared – very much not permanently, Sherlock was certain and John had to agree. Something was definitely coming. Something that was not good for Sherlock Holmes or newborn babies or the whole of London for that matter.

So John was out, then. Mary sat on the sofa nearby, beaming of pride in the way mothers did – was it automatic, natural, DNA coded for mothers to be proud of their offspring for just existing, Sherlock wondered. He looked up, his hand still softly prodding the tiny toes that were wriggling under his fingers. "He's… well-" Not sure what the appropriate compliment would be, he found himself stammering a bit. Not the time to commit his usual faux pas, he decided.

Mary nodded. "I know! Isn't he?"

The baby let out a tiny sigh. Unsure of what it was attempting to communicate, Sherlock decided it best to cease touching it. He stood up, unsure of what he was supposed to do next.

"Listen, Sherlock. I really need a word with you."

He nodded, retreating a few steps back to lean onto the safety of a doorframe.

"I know you don't appreciate niceties so I won't go into it in length. I just want to say I know what you did for me, even after everything. John knows, too. Talking about himself, what he's feeling, is a bit difficult, a bit awkward for him, so I decided that I could, perhaps, do it for him."

Sherlock nodded. Where was this going?

"You were here long before me. When you showed up at that restaurant I knew, I just knew, that whatever John had tried to turn away from, what he was trying to piece himself back together after, had just returned and the John, the life I was a part of, vanished before my eyes when he realized it was you."

Sherlock wondered if there was some way to excuse himself from the scene. Where this was going sounded a lot like things he did not like to analyze, things he did not understand. Things best left to themselves. Illgical, irritating, confusing, distracting things that sometimes upset the hell out of him because he could not communicate them, could not control them and could not, even if he tried, turn them off like his brother.

"Simply put: when you are around in some capacity, I know I can never have all of John Watson to myself. Not really."

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, protest, but Mary raised her hand, making the carrier rock gently with her other one. "Before you say anything you need to know that it's alright. What you did for us- After that, I can't take John from you. I'd never even try because I wouldn't succeed. Whatever it is you need to do, what you need to say to him, God, Sherlock, please do. This will never be a regular marriage, we'll never be a regular couple. You are such a huge part of what John is today, taking you out of the picture would mean hurting him, destroying him."

Sherlock felt as if he was in freefall. What was he supposed to say, to do? There was a baby now. Babies needed parents.

"I won't leave. I never will. I just hope, for your sake, that this – what I'm offering – is enough for you. If you asked me to go, I wouldn't. Just for my sake, I would, to pay you back for giving me a life away from my old one I so desperately needed. But for him," she nodded towards the carrier cot,"He needs himself a dad. Even if said dad might be in love with two people at the same time. I know he love me, bless him, he does, but this, the two of us, just isn't the whole truth."

"Doesn't John-" Sherlock paused, wondering if he had understood correctly. Mary was offering…. what? Permission to continue their friendship? Some type of fucked-up menage a trois? "-Get a say?"

Mary thought for a moment. "John, in his overgrown sense of responsibility, would tried to keep everyone happy, everyone content, and forget himself in the process. I know what he wants, and it's a lot of different things."

"John is an intriguing mixture of craving for danger and yearning for the banal."

Mary sighed. She decided not to address Sherlock calling her new, wonderful family banal. "Still, John can take care of himself. The question noone seems to be asking is, what do YOU want, Sherlock?"

To Sherlock it suddenly seemed that there was no other means of escaping this uncomfortable conversation but participation. "I want my old life back. I do realize this wish to be in vain."

"What else? What of this old life is it that you need? Name whatever first comes to mind."

Sherlock sighed. His usually lucid, systematic, logical and unsentimental mind seemed to be in a bit of a mess at the moment. He wondered what the correct, the good, the proper answer would be or if he really wanted to give one instead of just letting out his whole confusion and whatever else that was making him feel so strange. Somehow he understood from what Mary had said before that he need not fear speaking his mind, even if his answer shattered everything. "John."

Mary did not reply. For all her conviction that this was the right thing to do, to actually hear him say it out loud did hurt.

Sherlock was the third wheel. He was the elephant in the room. The ghost John would never exorcise on his own. John was way too polite, way too proper, way too responsible, way too selfless and way too hung up on his own prejudices to do anything like that.

"John is not gay. Has told me so on several occasions."

"This is not about that, Sherlock. Labels aren't people. People are way more complex than that."

"Doubtful." Most people were stupid, simple, dull, unobservant and uninteresting. Mary, however, was none of these things. And neither was John.

Mary sighed again. No wonder Sherlock Holmes drove her husband crazy on a regular basis. "What I'm saying is that you shouldn't think that saying certains things out loud will suddenly turn this mess into some sort of a standard relationship of any sorts. You, John, me, we're undefinable. The only thing to be said is that he seems unable to live without you, as you are without him."

Sherlock Holmes pouted. "I was managing myself quite fine before meeting John Watson, I'll have you know."

Mary smiled. "Tell me: did the entrapment of Magnussen really required you to actually inject yourself with anything? Couldn't you just act like you were back on the stuff, which you are very skilled at doing? Spend of bit of time at that dump, hair all messed, knocking down a couple of rubbish bins, enough to get yourself arrested and bang – tabloids screaming with the news of the great Sherlock Holmes turning addict? Really, Sherlock, why? You never answered John or Molly when they asked. Will you answer me now? Please?"

"Bored. Mind in overdrive."

"Wasn't the first time. What kept you from doing it before?"

Sherlock was getting rather annoyed by this interrogation. "Bloody hell, Morstan! It was John, alright?"

"John? Not Lestrade? Not Molly? Not work? Not Mycroft?" Sherlock scoffed at the mention of his big brother. "John then. John Watson, my husband."

Her husband, who at that very moment, decided to trudge up the stairs with a Tesco's bag in his hand. "I'm back." He paused at the doorway, eyeing the scene. Something was amiss here. Mary was sitting on the sofa, looking calm and expectant, as though awaiting for Sherlock to say something. Sherlock was standing by the kitchen door, looking as though he had a headache. "You should rein in your woman, John. She is putting her nose into my business."

John put the bag on the floor. "Alright then, you two, out with it. What's going on?" As if realizing something, he stepped closer to Sherlock. "Are you okay?" He glanced at Mary. "Is he alright? If he's feeling sick or something, and not telling me, I swear-"

he began.

Mary took a moment, observing the look of alarm and concern on her husband's face. Ever since Sherlock had been released John had been watching him so carefully, as if Sherlock Holmes was in danger of spontaneously combusting or something unless John kept a close eye on him. Sherlock nearly dying twice on what John considered his watch was probably the explanation. "Rest easy, love, he's quite fine," Mary assured him.

John was still sceptical. He looked at Sherlock, who was avoiding his gaze for some reason and looking exasperated. "You are? You'd tell me if you weren't, right?"

Sherlock crossed his arms at his chest. "I do promise, as you have made me promise eight times already since my discharge."

Mary stood up. The baby was quiet, asleep. John breathed a sigh of relief. Lately his life had seemed to be a constant barrage of crises. Moriarty on the run had done nothing to ease his worries. And Sherlock still wasn't quite recovered to his usual level of fitness. John new that by the way Sherlock took his time up the stairs, seemed reluctant to take a run when a case called for it and the way he carefully positioned himself in chairs, in cars. Until he was fine, absolutely, completely fine, John would not let down his guard. He now had three people instead of just one to protect and he desperately needed not to fail.

Mary cleared her throat. "I was just thanking Sherlock. For everything. You know what I mean. And I was just telling him I know why he would do this. For us. For you."

John sat down in his chair. His chair. The one that had reappeared in the living room after Sherlock had deduced John and Mary's story would be at risk of ending after the great revelation. "Why then?

There were three people in the room who felt a bit unprepared for the answer. Not that there was ever going to be a moment when this would be easy, and not awkward.

Sherlock's solution was to take a sharp turn, head to his bedroom and close the room with a slam.

John frowned. "He's a upset, isn't he? Is it the baby? I never figured he would be good with kids, you know. God knows he doesn't even understand adults."

Mary folded her hands onto her lap. "It's not the baby. Wouldn't ask him to babysit but he seemed fine, honestly. A bit clueless, bless him, but alright."

"What is it, then?" John stretched out his legs and yawned. If the baby was fine and Sherlock wasn't ill, well, that was most of his world sorted out for the day, then.

"He's in love with you, you know."

John's mind went blank for a moment and he felt as though a trapdoor had opened beneath. He felt as though Mary had said something that he'd instantly forgotten in its implausibility. "What? He what?"

"He loves you. He doesn't get it, probably doesn't know what he wants, doesn't know what to do with it, would never know how to express it and probably refuses to even think about it but God, he really does, doesn't he?"

Mary looked a bit sad.

John wondered if this was, indeed his life, and not confusing dream. His wife was telling me his best friend was in love with him? Maybe Sherlock had drugged his coffee again. Or hers.

He wasn't gay. Why did he need reminding himself of this at the very moment? He was married. He had a wife. It just wouldn't do, wouldn't work having all this- this additional – what ever this was. "Mary, um- Where's this coming from?"

"I told you, I just spoke to him."

To John, this was getting even more impausible. More confusing. "And he said this to you? Usual actual words of the English language?"

"Not really, no," Mary had to admit, "But consider this for a moment. He says he hates people, thinks even you are stupid, unobservant, slow. Why would he then abandon anything he was doing, saving London from a terrorist plot, becoming a hero to the annoyance of his brother – just to pull you out of that bonfire? Why would he jump off a building and leave his whole life just to keep you from harm? He committed cold-blooded murder in front of a SAS elite squad for you, for me, for us? He doesn't have anyone else and there's nothing else he wants but you. This he did tell me. He wants his old life back, namely you."

John found himself angry. Livid. Angry at Mary (again), at himself (again) and Sherlock (again). Using the armrests for velocity, he launched himself towards the hallway and knocked on Sherlock's door.

"Piss off, John. And take your wife along."

John thought he sounded strange. Not angry but something else. Maybe… embarrassed? Resigned? Defeated? John took a deep breath, reminding himself that a screaming match wouldn't solve anything. "Won't. Let me in, mate. Just me, I promise."

He stood at the door for ten full minutes. He quietly talked to Mary and together they decided it was best she left for home as the baby's feeding time was approaching and there probably wasn't much more she could do with the current situation.

Situation. Mess. John still wasn't completely accepting Mary's theories of his friend's emotional state. She hadn't know Sherlock as long of John and could be misreading him. Yes, that was probably it – Sherlock was annoyed at this womanly attempt at pop psychology and had decided it wasn't worth his while to continue the conversation.

When the stairwell door clicked closed, the bedroom door was opened. John entered tentatively a moment later, finding Sherlock piling books, gathering them off the bed for some reason. Sherlock never tidied.

"Sorry for all that. Mary's so wrapped up with the baby she's probably a tad bit bored, too much time in her hands for solving others people's issues—"

"No need to apologize." Sherlock picked up a few tomes from under the bed, sending clouds of dustballs rolling.

"I know you don't appreciate people putting their noses into your business but do try and be polite to Mary, there is a limit to her patience. Even with you."

"It's quite alright, John. Any supper plans?"

John wasn't sure if his friend was, indeed, alright, or whether this was a textbook evasive maneuver. "Listen, whatever she said -"

"Love. Such a melodramatic concept. So blasé. I object to my appreciation of your good qualities to be labeled with such underwhelming vocabulary but if it is required for others to understand why I do certain things then perhaps I might have to contend to use it myself."

Again with the confusing hallucinations. What Sherlock really saying what John seemed to be hearing? Was Mary right?

Was this the part where John was supposed to let Sherlock down gently, to say he was flattered, honoured but you know, right species wrong variety and can't we still be the bestest of friends, I hope you find someone as dandy as Mary, too?

"Mary is somehow be under the impression that I have hopes for a traditional relationship with someone. This is false. As I have told you before, I am married to my work and have neither the time nor the interest for such trite concepts."

Maybe this was just a whole lot of nothing. At least Sherlock was starting to sound like his typical self again.

"I do, however, agree with your wife that I wish for you to be a part of my life and my work, in whatever capacity you are willing to attribute."

This wasn't actually the plain statement Sherlock had intended for it to be. To John, it sounded more like a plea, a request, presented with certain shyness, a certain uncertainty that usually did not characterize Sherlock Holmes at all.

John chose his words carefully, aware that in that very moment, his friend was allowing a glimpse into his life rarely awarded to anyone but his closest and most trusted ones. "Whatever it means, whatever it sounds like, I don't care. I love you, you know. There's Mary, there's little Hamish, but there's always you as well. Has been, for a long time. Will still be in the future, I hope." He gently touched Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock danced outside of his grasp, but not far. This was venturing into territory he would not willingly go to. Not yet, at least. Sometimes, alone, at night, there were needs. Wants. Hopes. Right now he was willing to settle for much less. And probably could continue to do so as long as all these others things in John's life would require a guarded approach. Maybe he would be alright? If he could do this, take what he could have and demand no more than what was reasonable? What Mary was willing to give was quite a lot, and it would probably prove difficult to define the borders of this strange, uneasy agreement. John would have his issues. Mary would have issues. And libraries could be filled with records of Sherlock's own issues. The only thing he knew was that all he wanted, needed, was in that very room. And he felt no need to define it further, it would only break the spell. John, on the other hand, was bulldozing through his feelings, something that was fragile at best, just a whisper, leaving Sherlock feeling rather violently exposed.

The room was quiet for awhile. John was obviously not in the mood for dropping the issue. Offence for defence then? Sherlock put the book he'd been holding on the table. "Do you think that it was easy? That you had such a burden to carry after St Barts, and I merely walked away, two years of holiday with not a care in the world?"

John crossed his arms. "You didn't look too burdened to me in that restaurant."

Sherlock gazed into his eyes. "What kept me going, kept me sane during those two years, John Watson, was you. Nothing but you. Then I come back and find you – where? Not grieving, not waiting, but having replaced me, watching that woman just come and take what was mine."

John suddenly shook with rage. "I. Thought. You. Were. Dead. I didn't think you were on a bloody Benidorm holiday but dead. As in gone. Forever. And at some point I had to decide whether to follow you or scrape myself some semblance of a life. You bloody stupid idiot, I'm not even going to get into why you chose not to share your plan with me. Mary did not take me from you. You did not have me. You. Were. Fucking. Dead."

Sherlock leaned on the table, eyes closed. Was John ever going to get it? Was he ever going to appreciate his sacrifice? "Haven't you exacted your revenge already? Humiliated me enough?" he enquired John, finally deciding to have it out, let go of what he had sworn he would never reveal – what it had felt like at John's wedding. "Then you force me to partake – to orchestrate, for Chrissake – this farcical party, this celebration of the banale, where I would be socially obliged to behave, to compliment you, to compliment Mary, to be so far out of my comfort zone that I actually stooped so low as to call my brother and beg him to keep me company to avoid feeling like the loneliest in a crowd. I party to really ram the point home that she won, I lost and good riddance."

John was taken aback. "You actually called Mycroft?"

"I just could not decide whether it was common ignorance or cruelty that made you bestow upon me the duties of best man."

"Sherlock. Please look at me."

He wouldn't.

"Sherlock. You were the absolute best best man anyone could ever have. Don't you think I didn't hear what you said in your speech, really hear all that. Maybe I wasn't in the situation I am now, I couldn't really get into what you were trying to communicate, but I did hear you. And I did notice how you left. I had no idea whether to follow or not."

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably would not have gone down well with Mary if you had ran after me."

John decided it was time to stop evading himself. "Are you in love with me? No bullshit, no going around in circles this time. And no bloody semantics. Yes or no."

Sherlock sat down on his bed. He stared out the window, wondering whether this was an end or a beginning. And he feared the answer. "Yes."

John rocked on his heels, unsure of what to reply. "Alright then. If that's what I have to work with, then I will. I've no idea what to do, what to make of this, what you expect and when I am willing-"

"John." Sherlock stood up, face inches from John's, gaze unrelenting. Not touching but close enough for John to feel his breath on his face. It did not feel awkward. They were both used to this, Sherlock not having much in the way of personal boundaries or courtesy. Somehow it felt natural, self-evident.

"I expect nothing. I only hope for what already was. Nothing needs to change. I was perfectly content with how things were before. Just as Mary said, I don't think we need to give this a name, a label, to try to define it in traditional terms."

"Agreed then. We let things go as they go. Undefined. Just promise me that if this is too difficult, if there's something you want or need, you let me know. I can't promise I won't have to draw some boundaries, but I do want to know."

Sherlock stepped back and nodded. "Agreed, partner."

- The End -


End file.
